


The Dragonstone Literary and Onion Peel Pie Society

by lavenderandroses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: A direct rip of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society movie, AU Post-WWII Westeros and Planetos, F/M, Infidelity, Mix of Show and Book Canon, addendum: no original ideas except some smut to come, but sometimes you gotta make your Barbies act out stories you love, can't stress enough how there are no original ideas here, which is definitely not in the pg rated movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderandroses/pseuds/lavenderandroses
Summary: Sansa Stark is an author trying to find success using her own voice while adjusting to her life in a King's Landing that is just coming out of the Second World War.Jon Snow is a pig farmer living in the crown dependency of Dragonstone, a small island between the coast of the Crownlands and the Essosi mainland.Their shared love of reading and a connection to a single book will change the arc of their lives.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine with me, if you will, a map of northwestern Europe. You know the place – the British Isles, France. Further east, of course, lies the rest of Europe, including Germany. In the channel betwixt France and Great Britain lie two islands of note: Jersey and Guernsey, two of three British crown dependencies that were occupied by Nazis during WWII. Why is this important? A novel, which I have not read, and the subsequent Netflix film, which I have seen, called “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” are, intuitively, set on post-war Guernsey. 
> 
> Why is this relevant, you ask me? What is your point?
> 
> Watching TGLaPPPS (yikes) for the first time shortly after the onset of the COVID pandemic in America gave me major, major Jonsa feels, my dudes! Which isn’t surprising given that almost anything can and will give me major jonsa feels, but that is neither here nor there. What follows is my very self-indulgent close retelling of that story while imagining the aesthetic and ensemble of a semi-modern Westeros. Do I understand all the details? No! Was there an island that actually worked well in Westeros’s geography and the appropriate personnel for me to use in this fic? No! Was it easy or straightforward to cast any force in the ASoIaF world as Nazis (because I forgot about the Slaver’s Bay arc)? No! Do all these characters know each other in canon? No! Did I let that stop me? Probably not! That remains to be seen! Will I abandon this WIP? Hopefully not!
> 
> Anyway, just kind of imagine Westeros is approximately where GB is and Essos is approximately where continental Europe is and these dummies (with the exception of Sansa, Theon, and Daenerys, all local to the Westerosi mainland) are local to the island of Dragonstone (listen idfk), go watch TGLaPPPS on Netflix, and enjoy! Or don’t! Find your bliss!
> 
> I DO already have this mapped out since, as I mentioned at least twice in the tags, this is a direct rip off of the Netflix movie of the original story. That being said, this is a general disclaimer that I'm sometimes quoting directly from that movie because people who are paid to write movies sometimes do it very well! I will, however, be adding in some...things. So please enjoy this wholly unoriginal story onto which I have superimposed characters that I also did not create, because I love them.

741 AC, Dragonstone, the Narrow Sea  
Under Meereenese Military Occupation

“… _and I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife!”_

Daenerys and Mya shushed their older companion while Jon smothered a laugh. Dangerous though the noisy singing may be, he hadn’t imagined that Davos Seaworth., the local postmaster, had a side like this. He supposed that the months of austerity, which included a lack of most alcohols, were probably amplifying the effects of their evening’s libations for all of them, not just Davos.

“That’s very lovely, mate, but let’s just get you back to yours—please, Davos, do try to keep your voice down!” Jon helped to steady the man, not entirely sure on his feet, as the four of them walked through the dark fields back toward home.

“Sweetest pork I ever tasted, Jon,” Davos slurred. “And Mya,” _burp_ , “Your gin!”

“Shh! You’ll get us all arrested!” Jon chuckled once more – Mya’s admonition was no quieter than Davos had been. Davos resumed his singing and Jon looked at his watch.

“Ladies, why don’t you go on without us? I’ll cut through the field there to get Davos home—”

“This is _our island! Our_ home!” Davos’s singing was turning to shouting and suddenly Jon didn’t feel like laughing anymore. Jon needed to get him calmed down and away from the rest of their friends, quickly. “Those _Harpies_ can _rot_ in all _Seven Hells_ for all—”

“HALT!”

—a sudden flood of white light illuminated the foursome, freezing them where they stood for seconds or hours or days. Jon could not look to his companions but could only stare at the shadowy Meereenese officer approaching him.

“Papers!” the officer ordered, and time restarted. Mya scrambled in fear and began running back in the direction they had come. Jon was still trying to keep Davos upright, while Daenerys, somehow, maintained her composure.

“Yes, of course, captain. One moment.”

Jon heard more officers behind him and felt Mya run back to their group, whimpering in fear. “The pig was beautiful, Jon,” Davos moans again. Daenerys turned back at that, a fierce glint in her eye.

“Don’t say another word, either of you. Let me handle this. Give me your identification. Now!”

In a blur, Jon, Davos, and Mya pulled out their identification papers from the Occupation government. Daenerys yanked them from their grasps and handed them to the waiting officer as the soldiers behind them closed in. Even with the sound of dogs barking and officers shouting, Davos couldn’t keep quiet.

“That bloody pie, though…” Jon elbowed him, hard.

The officer took their papers but didn’t so much as glance at them. “You’re breaking curfew!” he snapped. “What is the purpose of your assembly?”

Jon watches as Daenerys’s eyes scramble. He thinks to help her; “We were just—"

“Reading,” she finishes. She pulls a book from her pocket, written in the Ghiscari language. “We have a book club. We’re trying to learn more about Meereenese culture and society, now that we are part of it. We should be on your list.”

Jon could see Mya nodding over Davos’s shoulder, and Jon did the same. Davos was still swaying on the spot.

The officer looked them up and down. “What is the name of your club?”

Gulping, Daenerys looked back. Catching Jon’s eye, she took a steadying breath. “The…the Dragonstone Literary and—”

Jon felt Davos reel again beside him. “Bloody onion peel pie!”

Daenerys gave him a wild look; “The Dragonstone Literary and Onion Peel Pie –”

“The Dragonstone Literary and Onion Peel Pie Society,” Mya finished for her, grabbing Davos’s other arm as Jon struggled to keep him upright.

“Yes, should be on the list,” added Jon.

They held a collective breath as the officer checked his roster. Mya seemed to have Davos in hand now, and Jon worried what the officers might do to Daenerys, who, while feisty, was a small woman.

“You’re not confiscating onion peels yet, are you?” he asked the officers, making his way to the front of the group. It didn’t seem to do much good as the captain’s assistant checked the list they all knew would not include them.

“This is an illegal assembly! You will all come with us, now!”

The officers moved forward to grab them. _This is it_ , thought Jon, _but that roast pig was worth it._ The Occupation had taken better men than him, and he was sure he wouldn’t be the last. Jon closed his eyes and braced for the arresting grip of the Harpy soldiers.

Instead, he felt Davos also step forward—or, perhaps more accurately, lurch. Jon opened his eyes to a most beautiful sight: the contents of Davos’s stomach being emptied onto the rubber boots of their arresting officer. The Meereenese stopped short.

“You alright, Davos?” Jon murmured. “Shall I help put him into your car, then?” The officer’s ears turned red as his lip curled at them.

“You will register this group first thing in the morning!” He snapped orders in Ghiscari at his soldiers, who backed away from the group, and turned on his heels toward his automobile, leaving the four Islanders breathing a sigh of relief into the dark night air. Silence settled once more.

“Well,” ventured Daenerys, “I suppose we had better find some books to read.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

746 AC, King’s Landing, Crownland, the Seven Kingdoms

On a crowded double-decker bus in King’s Landing, Sansa Stark was struck by a most unusual sight out her window.

_Fresh paint_ , she marveled. In some part of her brain, from Before, she recognized that workers painting the door to a home was absolutely pedestrian. But the rest of her, still with one foot firmly in the war, could almost cry at the tableau. It had only been months since the idea that there would even be doors in King’s Landing left to paint, much less paint available to civilians, had been quite absurd.

“Are you even listening to me, Stark?” Theon Greyjoy was her companion this day, as the two rode to another shop for a reading and signing of Sansa’s new book. While she had been watching the painters, he had been pitching at her. She supposes that’s his job now, as her editor.

“Yes, Theon, I heard you. The Times. An article about reading. But I’m not sure that I’m up to writing any more as Alaric, at least not right now.”

Her oldest friend raised his eyebrows at her. “It’s not Alaric Scone they want this time; it’s Sansa Stark.” Her blue eyes questioned him. “I’ve already said yes,” he added.

“Of course you have, you scoundrel.” Sansa sighed at his obvious delight.

“Couldn’t risk you saying no, now, could I?” Theon’s grin only reminded her that he knew her as well as anybody. She _would_ have said no, though she couldn’t exactly say why. “It will be just right for you to fit in before we head off on your book tour next week. Perfect timing, really!”

The bus groaned to a stop in front of a bright shop on the high street. “And off we pop, Sans. Mustn’t keep your fans waiting!”

“Alaric Scone’s fans, you mean.”

* * *

After a much-anticipated reading of one of the stories from her collection, _Alaric Scone Goes to War_ , Sansa began the dialogue portion of her afternoon with the readers who had packed out the store to meet her. She calls on an older woman in a green hat to begin.

“Miss Stark, have you always wanted to be a writer?”

_Stay superficial, Stark. You don’t need to bare your whole soul to this lot, and they certainly don’t want your tears._

“Always! Yes, it’s a perfect job; sitting, indoors, and always near a teapot.” The crowd laughs, as they always do. “It has its ups and downs. My first book, _A Critical Biography of Gilly Wild_ _ë,_ sold only—well, how many copies, Theon?”

“Erm…twenty-eight.” He chewed his lip. “Worldwide.”

Another voice rises from the crowd. “Why Alaric Scone? Why not write as yourself?”

Another question with a practiced answer.

“I’m not sure which came to me first, really, Alaric’s name or his voice.” Sansa had carefully workshopped how much emphasis she could put on the word _his_ to send a message to the ladies in the room while flying under the men’s radar. She remembered the apology in Theon’s eyes when he floated the idea of a pen name to her, acknowledging that her womanhood would likely be a detractor from bookstores carrying her work until she had established herself. She made her peace with it, treating it as a character exercise to get in the head of the dunderheaded protagonist of her comic stories. She could convince herself that becoming the character would help her to write him. No, it surely had nothing to do with her unworthiness to be an author as herself. “Either way, his name and voice both seemed to fit the story far better than my own would.”

“Are you writing another book?” another woman asked.

Sansa exchanged a cautious glance with Theon. “Well, Alaric was less of a book than a collection of faintly amusing essays, I’d say.” Theon’s eyebrows prompted her on. “Yes, I am,” she concedes. “ _Westerosi Foibles_ , a miscellany of our own cultural absurdity.” Theon nods approvingly. “For example, there’s a King’s Landing Society for Public Decency which advocates for…trousers for horses.”

_Trousers for horses. What am I doing?_ The crowd laughed, of course. They would love another Sconian collection of silliness, a welcome reprieve from the darkness of the past season. And her silliness sold! It had made her no small fortune, as well as Theon. For now, she must write what will be received. When she has a foothold in the industry, Sansa Stark’s voice can finally be heard.

* * *

An hour later, Sansa found herself exiting a taxi to a row of luxurious townhomes, recently rebuilt and trussed up as though the city had not been ruined in bombings a mere five years before. Since the war, Sansa had been letting a perfectly lovely, if small, room from a Mrs. Mordane. Theon had been egging her on for months now about finding a flat of her own, now that she had good money coming in from book sales, but this was the first time she was letting him drag her to a showing. He had picked the spot especially for her; it was all she could do to go along.

They greeted the seller on the stairs. “Big fan of that Alaric,” he told her. “Quite frankly, he’s why you get first dibs here, Miss Stark! But you must take it quickly – a place like this will go in no time!” He led them up the stairs to the first floor flat and opened the towering door. Sansa nodded her thanks, bracing herself to go in. When she entered the flat, though, she found her mind’s eye taking in a very different scene.

_Papa’s desk was exactly where it should be, not five paces in front of her; telephone, lamp, and typewriter arrayed as usual. Her father’s cherished trinket, a glass globe containing a delicate direwolf figure, still did its job weighing down his papers. That was where the normalcy ended, or perhaps about two feet past – where the rest of the room should be, only open air. Sansa had heard stories about the sky cells at the historic palace at the Eyrie, meant to psychologically torture prisoners with their gently sloping floors and the constant call of freedom through death. Sansa doubted, however, that the view from the sky cells could be quite as scarring as the view from her former home: bombed-out buildings that once housed people she knew and people she didn’t, and now were the resting places of hundreds of innocent civilians. Including her parents._

_It has been long enough that bodies had been recovered, but Theon knew Sansa would not stop until she could see with her own eyes what had become of her home. She had been visiting a extended family in her father’s ancestral home in the North during this particular blitzing – while she was, at twenty-two, too old to be sent to family in the country, her parents had still encouraged her to travel often as the capitol had been a target for many months. This particular trip, they had been scheduled to join her but her father’s business had held them back last-minute. She had offered to stay as well, but her mother had urged her on. It would be the last thing her Mama ever asked of her._

_Staring at the gaping hole that was once her dwelling place, she became singly-focused: she must save Papa’s paperweight. If spirits could live on in objects after their owners were deceased, she knew she would find him there and she must have it. It would be simple enough – the desk is right there, after all. Sansa took one step forward, then another, and froze as the floor shifted beneath her. Not safe, surely, but that couldn’t stop her now. It was almost in arm’s reach. Another step – the floor groaned, slanting even further. She was vaguely aware of footsteps behind her and, as though from a great distance, Theon’s voice. “Sansa? Sansa, what are you doing! Come back from there!” But the paperweight was_ right _there, she must reach it—_

_Several things happened simultaneously: Sansa took a final step and closed her hand on the orb; the floor underneath the desk gave way entirely, raining down on the rubble of the lower levels; and Theon, in his dress uniform, lunged forward to haul her back to safety._

_They sat in the dust where they fell. Theon held her as she wept for her home, for her parents, for her brother, missing in action in France, for the whole of the world. As he shushed her, she felt him reach for something on the floor at her side: a photograph her mother had loved, of the four of them. Papa, Mama, Robb, and Sansa, in a life that no longer existed. He handed it to her, dust and broken glass and all, and she cradled it and the other two remaining things that she held dear to her chest._

All in a moment, the memory leaves her breathless, her heart racing and her head dangerously light. She remains on her feet as the proprietor ushers her in, Theon at her elbow, but his selling points flow through her ears like the droning of a far-off hive. Theon tries to point out one of the features to her but the moment she meets his eyes, she knows he sees where she has gone. After all, he was there.

She turns to the seller. “It _is_ beautiful,” she manages. “I—I’m terribly sorry.”

Theon makes his own apologies to the man as he chases her out the door, down the stairs to the street.

They walk in silence for a few moments.

“Sansa, darling, it’s a good thing that you can afford a nice place now. You’ve earned it!”

“I feel such a fraud here, Theon.”

“You really do need something better than a cramped little boarder on the Street of Steel with one trunk and a typewriter.” Sansa shrugged at him, not meeting his eyes. “Or have you decided that you must take on the pains of the whole world because you’re still in it? Tell you what. When Alaric hits number one, we’ll buy new flats for everyone who was bombed out in King’s Landing. Would that make you happy?” She does afford him a wry smile at that—after nearly twenty-six years of acquaintance, he reads her like a book. Like one of _her_ books, she supposes.

He sighs, but goes on. “This could be a proper home, you know. One to last.”

“It is a proper home,” she agrees. “But not for me.”

* * *

A smile lights Sansa’s face as she watches Harry swing-step his way to her through the crowd, glasses of something deliciously fizzy in hand. The achingly handsome blond man sidles up to her to put one in her hand. “You know,” he says, “maybe we need to make a list of what you want in a place.”

“And what do I want in a place, then?” she laughs.

“Well,” he pulls her closer, “for starters, you need a huge window you can put your desk under, because frankly I’m worried you don’t get enough sun! And a fireplace, to keep you warm.” He nuzzles her, his mouth right against her ear now. “When I can’t do that myself, of course.”

Sansa’s laughter rings forth and she playfully pushes him away. “Harrold Hardyng, diplomat and clairvoyant! Incredible.”

He reels her back in. “At your service,” he tells her as he raises his glass to hers. He downs it all in one go and pulls her onto the floor, spinning and dipping in time with the sounds of the big band. After all, Sansa had always loved to dance.

After the rest of the evening on their feet, Harry walks her home at a fairly respectable hour in a decidedly disrespectful manner. Sansa can’t say she minds that he can’t seem to keep his hands off her—they’re strong, lovely hands, and they complement his soft, deft lips. This isn’t the first night he’s backed her up against the doorframe of her lodging house to steal more kisses than propriety would say he was allowed.

It also wasn’t the first night that her landlady, the stern-faced but soft-hearted Mrs. Mordane, had opened up her door to find them snogging in the foyer.

“Mr. Hardyng, I’ve asked you to stop,” she begins as Sansa covers her face with her hat, flushing a deeper red than her hair. “And yet you persist.” Mrs. Mordane brandishes a basket of flowers at him. “Do I look like I am made of vases, just waiting to be filled by Miss Stark?”

“I do apologize, Mrs. Mordane, but you know the local florists are struggling right now!” Sansa rolls her eyes as Mrs. Mordane fights a smile at her charming beau. She turns her gaze on Sansa.

“Flowers. You hold on to this one, Miss Stark.”

Sansa laughs and pushes Harry back out the door. “Tell Mrs. Mordane goodnight.” Harry, ever the charmer, did as he was told. Sansa stole one final kiss outside the door before he backed away into the crisp evening. Ducking back inside, she found Mrs. Mordane holding a stack of post.

“Your mail, Miss Stark.” Sansa accepted the letters around her handbag and her hat. “And your flowers,” Mrs. Mordane added, pushing the basket at her. Sansa eyed it warily.

“Please, Mrs. Mordane, won’t you keep these for yourself?” The older woman looked surprised, but nodded and added her thanks. Sansa made for the stairs.

“No more typing now, Miss Stark,” Mrs. Mordane’s voice followed her. “It’s well after ten.”

Sansa only smiled and continued up. She idly flipped through the envelopes as she made her way up the familiar steps until one plain envelope in a strange hand stopped her in her tracks. It had found her here, but had been forwarded—the original address was that of her parents’ former flat; a flat that hadn’t even existed for over four years now.

How very curious! Sansa could not wait for her letter opener; she ripped the envelope there on the steps. A hand-written letter was inside. Finding better light in the hallway landing, she read the salutation:

_Dear Miss Stark,_

_My name is Jon Snow. I live on my farm on the island of Dragonstone._


End file.
